


best kept secrets

by slyther_ing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Catholic School, Fights, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 15:12:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14240010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyther_ing/pseuds/slyther_ing
Summary: Marcus Flint is leaning up by the metal chainlink fence - gum popping, grin flashing white, and Oliver has the urge to run away because everything in the taller boy’s stature screams trouble, trouble, trouble.[catholic all male boarding school au]





	best kept secrets

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted from my tumblr; looking back through old pieces made me want to expand further on these short drabbles...alas.

Marcus Flint is leaning up by the metal chainlink fence - gum popping, grin flashing white, and Oliver has the urge to run away because everything in the taller boy’s stature screams trouble, trouble, trouble.

“Fancy seeing you here, Wood. Didn’t take you as one to skip class.”

“I’m not.” Is Oliver’s automatic response. And he isn’t - yellow slip clutched tightly in his fist tells any wandering administrators that one of the teachers had sent him on an errand. He’d thought it’d be fine to take a shortcut, a little time in the sun instead of holed up in the academy, but his steps have led him unwittingly to the apparent hangout of Riverbrook Sacred Heart Academy’s resident delinquent.

Flint snorts, jaw still chomping vigorously. “Sports scholarship really keeping you in line, huh? Too straight-laced to even skip a lecture. Boring.”

Grey eyes scan him over, once, twice - Oliver fights off the color spreading across his body, attributes his sweaty palms to the spring heat, and the stiff collar of his uniform.

“What about you, Flint?”

Flint narrows his gaze, chin lifted. “What about me?”

“Playing bad boy but not a contraband in sight. Who are you fooling?” Oliver drawls, and he knows that he’s playing with something unstable right now, but life has been mundane, and he’s always been one for skirting danger.

Instead of lashing out, as Oliver expects, Marcus’ grin spreads, molasses-slow, and he straightens up, broad shoulders casting shadows on the hot pavement. Each step of his shoes - regulation style, but with sleek Italian soles and leather crafted more with money than skill - echoes as he moves forward to meet Oliver, eye to eye.

“Bad boy?” Flint’s voice is soft, almost playful. “So good little Catholic school boy Oliver Wood has a thing for bad boy’s huh?”

Oliver blanches, stumbles two steps back. “I never said -”

“Oh, you didn’t have to say.” Flint says nonchalantly, and he contemplates Oliver over the bubble he blows with vague interest.

Oliver throws the slip in his hand at Flint’s head, some silly attempt to make his classmate move back, because Flint’s presence is a little dizzying and adrenaline rushes through his veins like it does after a game.

“You’re not discreet, Wood.” Flint smirks. Takes a languid step closer. “Forgot I was on the team last year, did you?”

Oliver bites his tongue, because the idea he had forgotten, that he  _could_  forget, is laughable. He’s memorized Flint’s swing, bat more a weapon than a tool in the boy’s hands. Memorized the way broad shoulders filled out the uniform just so, and Flint is older than him but watches the game with the same childish glee.

“Leave me alone.” Oliver hisses, swallowing the sticky-sweet denial that threatens to spill out his mouth. It’ll only draw Flint to him like blood does a shark.

Flint cocks his head, sun casting his face in shadow and Oliver can’t see the expression on his face. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“I swear - I swear, if you tell…” Oliver feels his voice drift off, curling and burning in his chest. Flint could let it slip, let it spread like the gas leak did last semester, and Oliver would be six feet under when his parents get a hold of him, would be shaken like a rag doll and disowned in a heartbeat.

He digs his feet in, fingers curling tight - straightens his stance.

Flint laughs. “Skipping class, watching me in the showers, and now fighting? Aren’t you full of  _surprises_. Well, go on.”

Fight or flight. Fight or flight - it’s a response, and Flint is taller than him by a good three inches and broader all around; Oliver wonders why his body likes choosing the decisions that give him the worst outcomes.

When he lunges, Flint’s ready, and ready means Oliver gets slammed back against the chainlink fence, metal pricking his back. A firm hand grips his throat and Oliver ends up clawing at the thin fabric of Flint’s shirt, intent on tearing through to muscle. His knees jab up, to hit Flint where it hurts, but Flint holds himself an arms length away and laughs, low and fully amused.

“Silly little Catholic school boy.” Flint repeats, eyes roving over Oliver’s flushed face, interest now blatantly apparent.

“You have a thing for those, Flint?” Oliver chokes out. Flint’s hand is still firm around his windpipe, and he’s tempting fate, knows Flint’s capable of knocking someone unconscious, but he can’t keep the bitter words in.

Grey eyes glint, dangerous. Then Oliver inhales sharply as chapped lips press hard against his, the gap between them closed in the span of time it takes Oliver to breathe.

He doesn’t know what’s happening: Flint still has him pinned against the fence, scratching against the back of Oliver’s neck, but the kiss is slow, intense, nipping teeth and dragging tongues, makes goosebumps break out on his skin.

Flint bites down, worries at Oliver’s bottom lip and Oliver feels the whimper build in his throat, pants as Flint finally releases him.

“Surprise.” Flint whispers, eyes dark.

Oliver notes how Flint’s cheeks are flushed too - a surprise indeed. He meets Flint’s gaze, and chases the next one.

* * *

 

Maybe it’s because it’s spring, the turn of the season - could be because he’d swallowed down coffee at dinner to get through studying for his biology exam tomorrow, but Oliver feels a restlessness burn underneath his skin. Wavering, wanting something that cool, articulate text on firm textbooks don’t do for him.

He sneaks out - the first time in his entire track record, because the nuns are strict on curfew. It’s the first time, sure, but he has enough friends who do it to know how, to creep, silent as a shadow through the long stone corridors.

He’s unsettled, shaky, needs something that he doesn’t want to admit.

The cool night air is refreshing, wakes him up, fuels the restlessness festering in his chest, and Oliver stalks magnetically to the track, lone figure running laps catching his eye. He vaguely wonders why no one has realized - track lights are still on, after all, glinting mistily against the dark sky.

It’s Flint, Oliver realizes, feels a low heat surge through his entire body at the sight of the older boy, muscles outlined starkly from the inky sky.

No wonder nobody cares. None of the teachers bother anymore, not with Marcus Flint. They know it’s a lost cause and no amount of detentions can nudge him from his habits, push him to ‘strive for the best and proper education’, as they always plead.

Flint doesn’t notice him until two and a half more laps, or maybe he pretends not to. But then the tall figure is padding over, half graceful and shining with sweat, to where Oliver is curled in on himself against the wind, arms crossed tightly.

Flint grins, jagged teeth flashed for a millisecond. “Looks like I’m a bad influence. Wood.”

“You think a little too highly of yourself.” Oliver scoffs, but his pulse is fluttering against the thin skin of his neck, almost feels like butterflies are going to burst out and swarm around him, make his emotions transparent and bare.

Flint doesn’t come closer, not like two days ago, but Oliver still feels like prey, cornered. 

He eyes Oliver with a gaze more curious than annoyed. “You can’t sleep.”

Oliver tips his head up, defiant, trying to hide the fact that Flint has seen right through him. “You’re running - think the same goes for you.”

Flint laughs, rough and dark, and Oliver thinks that it’s a nice sound - can’t remember a time when Flint participated in the cajoling that happens in the classroom with the rest of their school mates when the teachers turned their backs.

“I always run.” Flint says, casual in the way he slips his shirt back on. “Not much else to do in this shit hole.”

“The academy’s  _prestigious_ -”

“It’s fake.” Flint snarls, face slipping from interest to anger in a blink of an eye. “Full of all these - stupid goddamn bloated teachers and pretty boys who think they’re God’s gift to the universe. Or so their mommies say, probably.” He finishes with a snort, pops in a piece of gum and starts chomping vigorously.

Oliver doesn’t know what to say to that, because - because he realizes, besides the whispers and dark glances, and the quiet snark, he doesn’t really  _know_  Marcus Flint.

“Oh.” Is all he musters. Wants to protest, wants to defend the teachers, defend his own mother’s murmurs of encouragement that he can be something with worth in the world.

“B-But. People work for this. Work to be good.” Oliver manages, after he gets the embarrassment and the confusion out of his system, keeps the anger under his tongue.

Flint takes a step closer, and Oliver finds himself back to two days ago, same situation, different place. “No.”

“No?”

“No.” Flint repeats. “No, ninety-nine percent of this blasted school  - don’t work at all. Their little weekend study sessions are just for blow. But you.”

Flint reaches out, long fingers arching towards Oliver’s cheek, and Oliver flinches when they connect. Gentler than he’d expected. Soft. Flint regards him with a gaze that’s  _soft_ , and Oliver can’t help inhaling noisily through his teeth.

“You’re not the only one who watches, Wood.” Flint says, head cocked. “Pretty boy, sure, but got a scholarship - works his ass off for everything.”

They’re touching, Oliver thinks dimly, because somewhere in between Flint’s words, he’s taken hesitant steps forward to meet the taller, shirts barely brushing and he can smell the peppermint from Flint’s gum.

“What do you want.” Oliver doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to ask because he hasn’t retained his gpa for nothing and he’s smart, can put two and two together, and he knows, just knows that Marcus Flint is going to unravel his seamlessly put together future but Oliver is curious, and Oliver  _wants_.

Flint knows what he wants, too.

Their lips slot together after a moment and Oliver clutches at the thin fabric of Flint’s shirt, damp with sweat. It’s better and worse than the first time, because the first time Oliver hadn’t craved his touch this badly, hadn’t needed to curl against a hard body and forget about expectations and giving one hundred percent - hadn’t wanted to  _take_  as hard as he does now.

Oliver breaks away first, and Flint jerks forward as to chase after his lips - and that, that sends a surge of excitement through Oliver’s whole being. That Flint, cool, hard, practically untouchable, wants as much as he does.

“You’re going to say-” Flint breathes, looking almost worried up close. “Going to say that you can’t do this.”

This - them - whatever this is, breaks a lot of rules. Expectations. Commandments. Promises of disownment if someone with wide eyes and a big mouth stumbles upon this.

Oliver stares back, hard. “I’m out here, aren’t I?”

And Marcus Flint, he realizes, smiles like a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
